Requiem
by Juliana Brandagamba
Summary: Vienna, 1791. The Doctor arrives just in time to discover a sinister plot - not against the city, but against one man. His name is Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, and he's quite famous. But being that well-known could come at a very high price.
1. Prologue

It was too cold for November. The chill was in the air, the dry, freezing air; it did not seem to reach the windows, did not frost them over, but merely hung in the centre of the room: a cloud of coldness that could not be dispelled even by the fire. Wolfgang sighed, looking up from his work; he reached over and stoked the fire, trying to expose the unburnt bits of wood. It worked to an extent, but nothing could remove the chill that he felt inside of him.

Was it just him that was cold?

He shuddered at the thought that had crossed his mind more than once in the last week. There was something wrong – not with the air, not with the weather, but with him.

Closing his eyes for a moment, he wrapped his waistcoat tighter round himself and buttoned it at the front, noticing how thin he had become lately. It was back – the depression was back, the miserable affliction that had kept him in its grip for so much of the last year. He had thought himself recovered, but evidently he was wrong. Something was gnawing at his bones, and he didn't like it.

Still, he had to be grateful that it wasn't gnawing at his imagination. From his pen flowed new, exciting innovations – from his pen flowed music the likes of which had never been heard before. Even when he felt the rest of life would drive him mad, music kept him sane. He had to be grateful for that.

That's what Constanze said, at any rate. Dear Constanze – always trying to keep his spirits up. She was worried about him, he knew that. Of course she would be. Perhaps he shouldn't have told her about his most recent commission.

He scrutinised the letter again, trying to work out whose hand had formed the overly neat italic hand. It looked forced, or done with extreme care. Then he rubbed his forehead and sighed, knowing that divining the hand would tell him nothing: it had probably been written by a scribe or proxy or someone other than the one who had decided on the words.

A Requiem. Someone wanted a Requiem Mass written for them – well, for a recently deceased wife. There was something wrong with the story. He should have been able to see through it. But his mind felt as if it was stuffed full of wool. All he could do was begin writing and hope that it was just an innocent request.

He put pen to paper, scoring the first part, imagining soaring voices and mournful strings grieving the passing of the poor woman. It would be a grand work, even if he did say so himself. He just wished he knew whether it was a genuine commission, or if someone –

He had had disturbing thoughts about this commission lately. He hadn't told Constanze, but he had begun to have nightmares. Nightmares in which he was dead and this Requiem was being played – his own Requiem Mass. He had written his own requiem. Usually he shuddered the nightmares off – tried to forget them. But every time he sat down to write the piece, the dreams came back to him. The dark, haunting tune wouldn't escape his head; the images of his own grave were clear before his eyes.

His eyes would drift then, coming to rest on the name to which the letter was addressed. Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. A name well-known; he couldn't blame them for commissioning him out of all the musicians in Vienna. All the people with class and status wanted him to compose things for them. But was this one of them?

He shook his head very definitely, at once replying to the question and clearing his thoughts. He needed to be in a good state of mind for this piece. If it was a real commission, it needed to be good.

He dipped his quill in the ink and began once again to write.


	2. In Mozart Country

The young woman looked entirely out of place here, and, as she jogged to keep up with her companion, who also appeared a little strange, the question that sprung from her lips – 'Doctor, where are we?' – did nothing to diminish the unusual nature of her presence. They were attracting more than a bit of attention, but they ignored those around them with the air of having done the same thing before.

At this question, the man just smiled enigmatically.

The young woman looked around her, her eyes wide with excitement, her forehead creasing rather as she tried to guess her location. 'Doctor, is this the Georgian era?'

'It would be in Britain,' he replied, striding on ahead, dodging at the last minute to avoid a horse and cart that rattled insistently across the cobblestones.

'Where are we then?'

In the pause that he gave her, leaving her to work it out for herself, she span around, searching for clues, divining nothing from the language, for it sounded like perfect English to her ears. The street was vibrant: people, horses, coats, stalls, houses – many houses, all of them tall and elegant. People wearing fancy clothes and the most ridiculous wigs peered out of carriage windows. She could not deny that it all felt a little familiar; but she was just about to give up when she caught sight of a poster.

_The Magic Flute_

_The fine new opera composed by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart_

_Performed at the Theater auf der Wieden_

_Conducted by the composer_

The woman could not restrain the gasp of surprise and delight that sprang to her lips. 'Doctor, look!'

He was already looking. Now he beamed at his companion. 'Guessed where we are yet?'

'Salzburg?' she cried at once. Then, going back on herself: 'No. Vienna!'

'Exactly.' The Doctor grinned. 'Welcome to Mozart country.'

She was by now nearly jumping up and down with excitement. 'Mozart! We could see him perform live! – We could actually meet him!'

'I guessed you might like Mozart,' said the Doctor with a sideways grin.

'_Like_ Mozart? He's the greatest composer who ever lived! Doctor, do let's go to the opera. It's his most famous.'

'Juliana,' the Doctor said, stepping backwards from the poster, his face revealing nothing but his eyes twinkling, 'I think you'll find that I think much faster than you do.'

She stared at him, a little uncomprehending.

'Wolfgang's an old acquaintance of mine,' the Doctor told her. 'It shouldn't be too difficult to introduce you. And as for the opera... does this evening sound good?'

Juliana's face suddenly shone with the utmost joy and astonishment. 'Doctor... but Doctor, that's incredible! You _know_ him?'

And the Doctor smiled back, but this time he smiled at Juliana's elation without sharing it. Much as she might like to think that he had decided to treat her, this opera wasn't the only reason they had come to Vienna at this precise time. And evidently her excitement had entirely blinded her to the fact (a fact that she must have been aware of) that _The Magic Flute_ was Mozart's final opera, written but months before the great man's death.

* * *

The great man was at that moment sitting in his chair by the fire, his legs stretched out, giving every impression of a man at ease, though that was far from the truth. He wanted to relax – he wanted more than ever to relax, because one could not conduct an opera without being clear-headed – but as that was nigh on impossible, he would have to do his best to appear that way.

Behind him lay his writing-desk, the quill still standing in the inkwell (he had got into the bad habit of not cleaning his nibs), the barely-started Requiem Mass sitting ominously in the centre of the table. Every so often he would glance at it. He had a few ideas, but he didn't have the motivation to put them on paper.

Just as he was beginning to slip into a light sleep, he heard the doorbell ring. The bell jangled merrily, its tinkling sound making its way up to his room, and he sat up reluctantly, wondering if it was another of his fans. People were always calling on him these days – they had done in the past, of course, all the way through his illustrious career, but now he hated having to greet them, having to seem happy and cheerful when he wasn't.

At length the doorman came up to his room and knocked politely on the door. Mozart greeted him half-heartedly and inquired as to the identity of the visitors.

'A man calling himself the Doctor for you, sir,' the servant replied. 'And a young woman by the name of Juliana Brandybuck.'

Mozart did not recognise the second name, but at the first he cheered visibly. A friend and not a fanatic was something of a welcome relief. 'Send them up.'

The servant went away with a bow. A minute later there was a clattering on the stairs, and the door swung open once again to reveal a tall man with insane hair, and a pretty girl with a rather excited expression. When the girl's eyes met the composer's, she gave a gasp but quickly stifled it, allowing the man to make the introductions.

'Wolfy!' the Doctor cried in delight, bounding over and kissing Mozart on both cheeks.

'How many times, Doctor –'

'Sorry.' The Doctor grinned. 'Wolfgang. Good to see you.'

'And you, Doctor.' Then Mozart nodded at his companion. 'And your lady friend? Who's she?'

The Doctor spread his hand, almost hitting Juliana in the face as she had just come up behind him. 'This is Juliana Brandybuck. A friend of mine. Juliana, I probably don't need to introduce Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart.'

She shook hands with the maestro, looking overawed, her eyes glowing. 'Might I just say that I absolutely love your music,' she said, stuttering slightly.

'Oh, God, no,' Mozart said, mock-grimacing. 'Not a fanatic.'

'Sorry,' Juliana apologised.

'No, it's fine,' Mozart assured her with a smile, seeing that a redness was beginning to spread across her cheeks. Then: 'Doctor – I haven't seen you in, what, five years?'

'Has it really been that long?' The Doctor did not mention that from his point of view it had been more like fifty. 'How's the wife?'

'Constanze? Oh, she's fine. Away today visiting friends in the city.' Mozart paused, looking the Doctor up and down. 'Well, you're keeping well. What brings you to Vienna?'

The Doctor grinned. 'I thought I'd drop by, see how my old friend was keeping – and anyway, fangirl here is very excited about the opera this evening.'

'_The Magic Flute_?' asked Mozart. 'Yes... it promises to be a good performance. The singers, the orchestra – really, they don't need me there. But...'

'But you have to be there,' said Juliana at once. 'You're conducting. And you're the composer. Why wouldn't you be?'

'I'm... just feeling a little out of sorts,' Mozart admitted, stifling a yawn. 'But no – you're right. If you're going, I'll be there. Just for you, Juliana.'

She could not hide the grin that spread over her face at these words.

'But I shouldn't be sitting here whilst you stand,' Mozart said, getting up from his chair. 'I'll see if there are drinks going... take a seat, take a seat!'

He left the room for a minute to find his servant and ask for refreshments; while he was occupied, the Doctor pulled two chairs up in front of the fireplace, and Juliana studied the room, this incredible room, the workshop of a genius craftsman.

Suddenly her eyes alighted on the sheet of music that was on the table. Her eyes widened; she could not hold back her gasp this time. 'Doctor!'

He span round. 'What?'

'Mozart's Requiem!' she said in a half-whisper. 'Good God, but of course! _The Magic Flute_ – it's 1791! Isn't it? It's 1791, it must be late 1791 because – well, didn't he begin to write the Requiem Mass just before he –'

And she fell silent as Mozart came back into the room; but out of his line of sight she cast a horrified glance of realisation at the Doctor, shocked that her musical hero was at this stage of his life, that he didn't have long left at all.


	3. The Kidnapper

They spent a pleasant hour or so after that chatting merrily with Mozart, and satisfying one of his greatest fans as to all of the questions that were bottled up within her; then they left the composer to prepare for the evening's concert. The Doctor had not once driven the conversation round to the date, Mozart's health, or even what he was really doing in Vienna; and despite her curiosities, Juliana did not breach any of these topics either, though she was left extremely annoyed that she hadn't.

It occurred to them that if they were going to stay a while here (and the Doctor had hinted at this, though he hadn't said how long), and if they were to wander round the city and later attend the opera, they ought to redress themselves in suitable period costume. Juliana was overjoyed to find a huge array of clothes from that era, and spent a good long while picking out a dress for the day and a dress for the evening, and dipping into a selection of jewellery and other accessories; she emerged from the extensive wardrobe wearing an enormous dress with a wide skirt, and with her hair bundled up to make it as big as possible (the TARDIS wardrobe extended to wigs, but she didn't much fancy wearing one). It wasn't the most comfortable outfit she had ever donned, but at least she felt as if she might belong.

When she returned to the main control room, the Doctor was nowhere to be seen. Juliana sighed in exasperation and ran back to the wardrobe, calling his name, only to find that he wasn't there either. Therefore she ran back to the control room, and only then noticed the small handwritten note stuck to the corner of the monitor.

_Gone investigating. Back in a bit. You were taking too long getting dressed – sorry! I had something to look into. See you back at the TARDIS._

She groaned at this, both annoyed that he had left her and slightly insulted that he hadn't told her where he was going. Now he would expect her to sit tight in the TARDIS like a good girl and wait for him to return.

Wait, ha! Juliana added her own note to the Doctor's and, without giving the matter much of a second thought, stepped out once again into vibrant Vienna.

* * *

The Doctor hadn't had a very successful time investigating, which wasn't immediately obvious from his quick pace and springing steps. He half-ran back to the TARDIS and entered, only to find the place empty and Juliana's deeply irritating note on the monitor, replacing his own.

_Have gone exploring. Back in a bit. You were taking too long investigating – sorry! See you back at the TARDIS._

Though he could hear Juliana's bright, joking tone in the laconic note, he groaned as she had done. 'Why does everyone always run off?' he found himself saying out loud. 'It might be dangerous,' and with that he left the TARDIS to go in search of his somewhat rebellious companion.

* * *

Juliana was having great difficulty manoeuvring down the streets. She wondered if the enormous hooped skirt might have been a mistake. Every time a cart rattled over the cobblestones she found herself almost squished into the buildings, and people were taking rather wide steps to avoid colliding with her attire. It wasn't just her – this was a problem for all the ladies – but she felt somewhat embarrassed as yet another gentleman sidestepped her and apologised as his knee bumped the skirt, causing it to flap around on the muddy floor. It would surely be ruined by the end of the day.

That was when she felt an arm slip itself into hers. She tried to turn to see who it was, but got no more than a glimpse of possibly a man – this figure wrenched her arm as he dodged out of her sight, before dragging her off the street and down a side alley – one of those dark and grimy ones between two closely-built buildings. She cried out but her voice sounded strangled; the figure – was it a man? A woman? Neither? – held something up to her face and her vision went black.

* * *

The Doctor sped down the street, at points stopping people and asking if they'd seen a girl, but he couldn't really say what she looked like, as she could have made herself unrecognisable in the TARDIS wardrobe and he would never know; he could say only that she was young-ish, small-ish and had remarkably green eyes.

Nobody, of course, could say that they remembered anybody of that description. The Doctor groaned in deep annoyance, slipping between people, skidding on the damp cobblestones, looking up and down the street, wondering where she could have thought of going to. He couldn't guess. It was 18th-century Vienna – it was the very height of her favourite era in history – she could have gone anywhere.

'Juliana!' he yelled at last, his voice making many turn but gaining no response. 'Juliana!' he yelled again; and when nobody replied to this second cry, he got out his sonic screwdriver and raised it to eye-level, trying unsuccessfully to hide it in the palm of his hand; and he pressed the button, wincing slightly as it emitted a high-pitched noise that only he could hear. Then, when he had learnt all that he could from the signal, he murmured: 'That's not good... that's really not good.'

He swung round, as if hoping that she might be right behind him, but there was still no sign of her. And as he set off in the direction of the signal given by his sonic screwdriver, he muttered despite himself: 'I _wish_ they wouldn't run off!'

* * *

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart went back to his Requiem Mass with his head filled with thoughts completely inapt for the serious, mournful work. He had found his conversation with the Doctor somewhat cheering: the Doctor was annoying, it was true, and far too chirpy for his own good, but that could only help him in these dark times. And Juliana – she may have been a fan but she wasn't an overly talkative one – always a good thing. He reminded her somehow of his earlier works: smiling, optimistic, bubbly without bubbling over. At that moment for the first time in a long while he felt as if he could write a piece like that again. Perhaps he would. But that wasn't the task at hand.

He picked up his pen from the inkwell – and cursed himself for leaving it in there – and then spent quite a while writing, letting his hand rather than his mind do the composing. He was used to that now. His hand had scored so many works that it seemed to have a mind of its own; he did not stop it.

After a bit his hand started to feel cramped, and his legs were complaining, so he stood, looking out of the window without really seeing anything before taking a closer look at the street below. It was still busy as ever: the circular skirts of ladies filled a large part of the view, whilst coaches rattled between the people and sometimes forced them right to one side. Amongst the crowds was a young lady on her own, in a dress that didn't really suit her; she was looking up at the buildings with wide, excited eyes – Juliana.

Mozart could not help but chuckle at her expression of rapture, but at the same time he felt a helpless longing to be that happy, to be able to see Vienna with such fascination and joy. His chuckle lost its humour and became a long, world-weary sigh.

That was when he noticed the man. Or at least, he thought it was a man – a figure then, dressed entirely in black, a dark cape swirling around his shoulders, the hood drawn low over his face. From up here he looked like a shadow, especially in the way he seemed to flit down the street, to avoid everyone's attention, to stay at the edges of the pavement.

And then he grabbed hold of Juliana's arm. Mozart wasn't quite sure how he had got so close to the girl without anyone noticing – but he had, he had his arm in hers, he was pulling her away from the bustle of the street towards a little snickelway – a particularly dark and damp one known affectionately as "Cut-throat Alley". Mozart leaned out and yelled her name – '_Juliana_!' – but it was too late, she was out of sight and probably out of earshot.

He didn't think about anything else but what he had just seen. Ignoring his complaining muscles, his growing headache, the composition that was forming in his mind, he tossed down his pen and ran to see what had happened and whether he would be too late to prevent any danger coming to the Doctor's pretty young companion.


	4. Occupational Hazards

The people on the street below could hardly believe that it was Mozart who had just come running from the house, his face passionate, his wig awry. Had he not been ill for a good long while now? He attracted more than a few stares, but ignored them all; at last, breathless, he came to Cut-Throat Alley and stared down it.

It was empty.

There was nobody there. Not a trace. Not a single sign that anyone had been kidnapped and dragged down this Godforsaken passage. He steeled himself; he slipped down it, squeezing between the houses, his feet squelching in some unmentionable slime. Making sure that nobody was following him he continued, stumbling a little on the grime and in the half-darkness that betrayed the very fact that it was daytime, and at length came out on the street beyond.

A few people looked a little surprised at seeing the great composer emerge from one of the worst-renowned back-alleys in the neighbourhood, but none commented on it. Mozart brushed himself down – he seemed to have attracted some of the dirt without actually touching it – and looked up and down the street with slightly wild eyes. Had Juliana escaped unscathed, and her kidnapper run off? Somehow he doubted it.

Therefore he raced down the street, round, and up the more reputable route to his own street. And there at the mouth of the passage he saw the Doctor, who was staring down it with the same worry he had felt, except that the Doctor probably knew what was going on. He usually did.

'Doctor!' cried Mozart.

'Wolfgang,' the Doctor said vaguely, not in his usual manner. 'I'd stay out of this.'

'But what is it? What's going on? What's happened to Juliana?'

At the mention of Juliana the Doctor seemed to start slightly. 'What?'

'Juliana. She was kidnapped... a man in a black cape... Taken down this alley. Both have disappeared.'

'This exact alleyway?' The Doctor held up his hand, in which he carried his sonic screwdriver – Mozart had no idea what this slim metallic item was, but he trusted that it was relevant. 'That's curious, because... We haven't got time to lose. Wolfgang – you stay here. You shouldn't be here. You're safer inside. And I'll...' And with that he gambolled off with the gait of a rather worried hare.

_Safer inside?_ Mozart considered these words for only a split second, before the thought returned to him that had so often plagued him lately. _What does safety matter to me? I'm dying – God help me, I'm dying. My life doesn't matter anymore. I should be helping others' whilst I can._

And with that cheerful thought he ran off after the Doctor.

* * *

Waking up and finding yourself handcuffed on board a spaceship is an occupational hazard of being a companion of the Doctor's, and it was only inevitable that this should happen to Juliana at some point. But for it to happen so soon was a little unfortunate. Opening her eyes slowly, she came round to the realisation about where she was and what she was tied to – an ominous-looking metal chair – and then she looked around the room, hoping to find out who it was who had captured her.

There he was – by the control panel to her left. The man – woman – _thing_ in the black cape, which he, she, it had yet to take off. The figure adjusted a few controls and then turned to face her.

It took a moment for her eyes to communicate with her brain. Then as she realised she gasped in shock.

She was looking at an exact copy of herself.

* * *

Mozart hadn't been in the TARDIS before, or even seen it, even though he had heard of it from his conversations with the Doctor. Therefore he was somewhat surprised to see that the Doctor's craft was indeed, as he had said, a tall blue box that didn't look as if it would fit the two of them in it. As the Doctor came up to the door, Mozart ran up at his heels, panting for breath and leaning on the wooden panelling for support.

'I thought I told you to stay inside,' the Doctor said, his brow furrowing.

'Yes, you did, but I came anyway.' A hint of Mozart's younger, rather cheekier self showed in his face then. 'Well, are we saving Juliana or not?'

'Yes...' The Doctor pushed the door open and slipped inside his ship. Mozart was astonished to see a bright light filter through the narrow gap between the doors, and followed his friend; when he found himself in the huge control room, with its vaulted ceilings and jumble of architectural styles, with its gadgets and lights, its tall central column, he could not believe his eyes.

'But it's...'

'Bigger on the inside?' the Doctor suggested with a small grin.

'Well, that as well.' Mozart paused. 'It's rather beautiful.'

'Thank you,' the Doctor couldn't help saying.

'Almost as beautiful as Vienna's concert-halls,' Mozart continued.

The Doctor's face fell slightly at "almost". However, there was no time to be wasted on discussing how nice the TARDIS looked: they had a girl to save. 'Right! We should be going. Let's see...' and he ran to the console and began pulling levers somewhat recklessly.

'Do you know where we're going?' asked Mozart.

'Sort of,' the Doctor replied. 'It's _when_ we're going that we need to be worried about with this old thing.' He patted the console with rather an affectionate smile.

He pressed a few buttons, and then, suddenly, they were off. The whole craft lurched to one side and Mozart fell over rather spectacularly, his wig nearly coming off in the process. The central column began to rise and fall, and a whooshing noise filled the space, echoing off the walls, sounding very much other-worldly.

Mozart picked himself up just as the TARDIS landed with a _thud_, and tumbled again, this time into the console.

'Steady on,' the Doctor said good-naturedly. 'Yes, I know, the TARDIS is a little – whoa!' he cried as there was another jolt. Then at last all fell still.

Mozart's legs were shaking rather violently but he tried not to show it. The Doctor ran to the doors and got out his sonic screwdriver; then he turned back to the composer.

'You really shouldn't come,' he warned him.

'I'm coming anyway,' Mozart replied as confidently as he could.

The Doctor raised one eyebrow. 'I'll get Juliana back safely, I promise,' he said.

'I'm coming,' said Mozart very definitely. 'Doctor, my life is nothing. I'm – Doctor, I may as well say it, I'm dying. I've got something that can't be cured and in a year or two perhaps that'll be it. So don't worry about me. I'm going to help others as much as I can while I can. Anyway you might need me,' he added with a slight smile.

The Doctor's eyes suddenly glistened with the tears he had meant to hold back. He studied his friend for a moment, noticing how old he looked, though he was barely in his thirties.

'Very well,' he said at last, his hand going to the door-handle. 'Let's go,' and he opened the door; and Mozart followed him as quickly as he dared.

But they didn't get very far. As soon as the Doctor had stepped out of the door, Mozart, following a few paces behind, crashed into him.

'Doctor!' cried what was unmistakeably Juliana's voice. Then he saw Juliana herself, running towards them with a terrified expression on her face. 'Doctor, we should get out of here! Right now!'

'What is it?' cried the Doctor.

'What's going on?' asked Mozart at the same moment. Neither made any move to go, though Juliana had already reached the TARDIS and had her hand on the door handle.

'Not enough time to explain – Doctor, where's the key?'

'I gave you a key.' The Doctor furrowed his brow.

A moment's hesitation. 'I've lost it. I dropped it somewhere whilst I was escaping. Doctor, please!'

'You're not Juliana.'

The quick statement made Juliana jump and Mozart stare. The Doctor caught the girl by the arm, pulling her in front of him, studying her with his hands firmly on her shoulders.

'I know who you are, I've seen you before, I thought you were dead.'

Mozart had never thought that the Doctor could possibly sound so angry, and wondered why on earth he was saying such things to Juliana, of all people. 'Doctor, why –'

'Doctor!'

The voice, which was Juliana's but didn't come from Juliana's mouth, made them all turn in astonishment. There, coming towards them, was another Juliana – exactly the same in every way as the one who was still in the Doctor's grip.

'Doctor, don't let her in the TARDIS! She's...'

Her voice trailed off as she realised that the Doctor was certainly not letting her in the TARDIS, and that the others were staring at her.

'Are you twins?' asked Mozart stupidly.

'No! She's an alien!' cried both Julianas at once.

'Why does this _always_ happen?' muttered the Doctor in something akin to annoyance. 'Right,' he said in a louder voice. 'What's your surname?'

'Brandybuck,' said both straight away.

'Middle name?'

'I don't have one,' they replied simultaneously.

'Favourite composer?'

'Gustav Holst,' said one, at the exact same time as the other said, 'Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart.'

'Aha!' cried the Doctor, and dragged the Holst-loving Juliana into the TARDIS, along with Mozart, and shutting the door on the other one just in time. He raced to the central console, pulled a few levers, and they were off, out of the spaceship and safe for now.

'What's going on?' asked Mozart, utterly bewildered, as they landed.

'I'll explain in a minute,' replied the Doctor. He opened the door, showing them that they had landed in the exact same spot as before. 'Wolfgang, I don't suppose your servant does tea? I think we're going to need some.'


End file.
